`Put it by here, then. Might as well have it if you've brought it.'
`Fine.' Will set the bucket down. The cook nodded a reluctant acknowledgment.
`Tell John thanks,' he said and Will snorted.
`Wasn't John who had to lug it here across the camp, was it?' he said archly.
`True enough.' The cook understood the implied message. 'See me when we're serving. There'll be some extra for your plate.'
Will touched his forehead. 'Grateful to you,' he said, and moved away. He glanced back after a few paces but the cook had already lost interest in him. Will moved away, his pace brisk, heading for the central command pavilion. It was less than thirty metres away and he could see it clearly. It stood a little apart from its neighbours, at the top of a slight slope, with a large fire in front of it. There were two sentries placed either side of the entrance and as he watched, three men approached, waited to be recognised, and headed inside. Shortly after, a servant appeared with a tray bearing thick glass tankards and a wine flagon. He went inside and reappeared a minute or so later.
Will walked past the large tent, staying well away from it, on the far side of the cleared area. Out of the side of his eyes, he regarded the position. Sentries at the front, of course. But he was willing to bet the back of the tent was unguarded. After all, he realised, the two sentries were more a mark of authority than a security measure. There was little chance of anyone attacking the command tent in this camp. He continued on. The open space ended and now the ragged lines of tents resumed, the individual tents placed only a few metres away from each other. He passed several where the tent flaps were open and men were sprawled inside or on the ground outside, talking among themselves. He muttered a greeting to one group who looked up at him with mild curiosity. He waited until he had passed several unoccupied and unlit tents. Then, glancing quickly around to see that nobody was watching, he dived into the shadowed space between two of them. Crouching, he moved to the rear, and so to the next avenue of tents. Now he dropped full length, pulling the cowl of his cloak over his head once more, and lay like a shadow, observing the next lane that he had to cross. There was little activity here. He waited several minutes to make sure, then rose smoothly to his feet and moved across the line into the space between two tents on the opposite side. One of them was occupied and lit from within and hecould see a shadow on the canvas as the occupant moved around.
Again, he moved to the back of the tents. He estimated now that he would be behind the command pavilion if he were to head back along the next lane. Checking as before that the way was clear, he rose and walked unconcernedly back the way he had come.
He could see the command tent again. It bulked much larger than the others and stood in its own empty patch of ground. He was right. His movement back through the tent lines had brought him out level with the rear of the big tent. His original assumption also proved to be correct. There was no guard at the rear. Still, he could hardly hope to walk out of the tent lines and stroll up behind the pavilion to eavesdrop without someone noticing him, so he cut left between two more tents and moved to the next lane.
He took stock of the situation. There were men in front of some of the tents in the next line. But the two closest to the open space where the pavilion was pitched were dark and empty. Will looked around quickly. The tent to his left was occupied, but the flaps were drawn closed. There was a bundle of kindling by the small fireplace in front of it. Quickly he moved to it, stooped and swung the bundle up over his shoulder. He trudged along the tent line now, carrying his firewood, passing the men who were sitting talking. They barely gave him a glance. As he reached the final tent, he swung the pile of branches down and placed it beside the fire, then, in one quick movement, he slid out of the tent lines to the darkened area beside them and went quickly to ground, his cloak wrapped around him, his face concealed once more beneath the cowl.
He snake-crawled several metres into the open but unlit space, driving himself forward with elbows and knees. After a few moments he stopped to see if there had been any reaction to his approach. Nothing. He glanced up to get his bearings and slithered towards the back of the pavilion, sliding through the rank grass like a serpent, the mottled pattern on his cloak breaking up the outline of his body and letting him merge into the shadows and uneven hollows of the ground around him.
He moved carefully now and it took ten minutes for him to cover the thirty metres to the rear of the pavilion. At one stage, a group of men emerged from the tent lines and headed towards the larger tent. There were four of them and they came dangerously close to the spot where he lay, not daring to move a muscle. He felt his heart hammering behind his ribs, was sure they must be able to hear the sound as well. No matter how many times he had done this, there was always the fear that this time they must see the prone shape lying unmoving a few metres away. The men were drunk and talking loudly, staggering slightly on the uneven ground. One of the sentries stepped forward, holding up a hand to stop them. Will lay, his head to one side so that he could watch what was happening.
`That's far enough, you men,' the sentry called. A sensible man would have realised that his tone brooked no argument. But these weren't sensible men. They were drunk.
They stopped. Will could see they were swaying slightly.
`Wanna word with Padraig,' one of the men said, slurring the words badly.
The sentry shook his head. 'That's Captain Padraig to you, Murphy. And you can believe he doesn't want a word with you.'
`We've got a legitimate complaint to make,' the man called Murphy continued. 'Any man can make his case to Padraig. We're brothers in this band. We're all the equals of each other.'
His companions chorused their agreement. They all took a pace forward and the sentry lowered his spear. They stopped again. A voice from inside the pavilion caught the attention of all of them.
`We may be equal in this band, but I'm more equal than anyone, and it pays to remember that. Quinn!'
The sentry straightened, turning to look back at the pavilion. The voice obviously belonged to Padraig, the leader of the band of cutthroats, Will thought. It was a harsh, uncompromising voice – the voice of a man used to instant obedience.
`Yes, Captain!' the sentry replied.
`Tell those drunken fools that if they continue to disturb me, I'll start taking their ears off with a blunt knife.'
`Aye, Captain!' Quinn said. Then, in a lowered tone, he said urgently to the four drunks, 'You heard him, Murphy! And you know the captain is not a man to cross. Now get yourselves out of here!'
Murphy swayed belligerently, unwilling to back down in front of his friends. Yet Will could tell from his body language that he was cowed, and after a show of defiance, he would give in.
`Well then,' he said, 'we wouldn't want to disturb the great captain's rest, would we?'
With an exaggerated bow, he turned away with his companions and they lurched back down the sloping ground to the tent lines.
Realising that the sentries' eyes were on the drunk men, Will slipped forward quickly, slithering into the dark shadow at the rear of the pavilion. He pressed forward, easing the cowl back away from his ear to hear what was being said.
… so at first light, Driscoll, you'll take thirty men and head for Mountshannon. Take the valley road. It's more direct.' It was Padraig speaking, the man who had threatened to separate the drunks from their ears.